


It's Like Seeing Hope

by innusiq



Series: Pre-Serum Problems [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 08:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6463081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innusiq/pseuds/innusiq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>01/03/1941 - Today, Steve drew in his sketchbook during his lunch break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Like Seeing Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Part three of a series of ficlets inspired by [todays-skinny-steve](http://todays-skinny-steve.tumblr.com) tumblr page that chronicles Pre-Serum Steve's day to day life beginning 01/01/1941. I continue to thank this tumblr user immensely for allowing me to use their posts as inspiration!

Steve’s hand holding the shorten nub of a pencil begins moving the moment he has his well-weathered and nearly full sketchbook flipped open. The book itself is little over a year old, a gift from Bucky not this last Christmas but the time before, and still has a few blank spaces available for fill, but only a scant few, smaller corners and blank edges framing older works. The last fully blank page had been filled a few months back when he’d been stuck inside after again catching whatever influenza going around, it keeping him down longer than the normal person. Steve was home a full week then where as Bucky, who caught it two days after Steve, was back to work before Steve even had the energy to pull himself out of bed on his own. It was frustrating, watching Bucky suffer his own illness but also still help Steve when he could, and made Steve feel a bit of maudlin longing for the cool, gentle touch of his mother’s hand stroking over his brow as she took care of him through another battle of illness. The memory of her murmured prayers at his bedside is what reignited his mourning and filled his final blank page, bringing to life a likeness he prays never to forget how to draw, swearing on the days he can’t remember the exact way her lips curled at the corners when he was being stubborn, or the light that reflected in her eyes when he would greet her upon returning from work, feeling better than he had when she left him earlier in the morning. It is only in dreams now that Steve remembers how her hands expertly sliced apples and the smell of her apple pie fresh from the oven. Sketching her that day was not planned, but nothing he draws ever really is. His hands tend to have a mind of their own, drawing on instinct rather than intention, like today.

It is quiet in the little alcove sectioned off from the stock area for the break room of the local chain market Steve works as a stock boy and bagger. The room itself houses a rickety table and chair set, six small locker-bins and a barely used sink that has seen better days. It is nothing fancy to write home about, but serves the purpose of giving workers a place to take a small moment away for themselves to regroup, especially when the weather outside is less than stellar for a step out for fresh air like today, when the temperature is barely in the twenties with the wind making it feel even less so. Steve would actually like to skip break all together, wanting to work his way straight through his hours to prove his worth and make a few extra cents, but all the same he curses his body’s need of that thirty minute respite to give it the rest needed to make it through the short hours of his schedule. His feet thank him most the moment he sits down, followed by his back as his shoulders relax their posture, providing a brief moment of relief. Steve’s hand continues its movements, filing the blank edge of the page before him, the silhouette of an army man in salute stance coming to life even in the rough outline beginnings.

The thing about drawing for Steve is that it’s easy, probably the easiest thing there is about his life. Living in general is something most people take for granted. Every single day of Steve’s life is a struggle in the form of faulty lungs that leave him gasping for breath when he exerts himself too much (or sometimes just out of the blue when the air itself is off), an out of rhythm heart that gives a whole new meaning to the phrase about a heart _skipping a beat_ , and a curved spine that makes walking some days unbearable and many nights pain ridden to the point of exasperation. Nothing about living is easy or natural for Steve, but drawing over the years has become a way for Steve to experience the world his body continually limits him from. Through drawing, Steve learned how to love life in spite of his physical limitations. _You’re a natural,_ his mom would say, smiling down and roughing up his hair, something she had done from as far back as he can remember to just before she passed. _You have a way of seeing the beauty most overlook_. 

Bucky has said the same as much. _You’ve got a knack, Steve_ , he’d said one rare day when Steve allowed Bucky to peruse his sketchbook, flipping through the pages. _You see things… Different… It’s like seeing hope…_ Bucky had blushed at the time while closing the book, but wouldn’t explain further the words causing a flutter in Steve’s chest that he eventually blamed on his heart ailment than anything else and let it go.

“You’re a regular Michelangelo there, Kid,” Rose Marie says as she enters the break room, a firey redhead with curves men were never quiet enough in their talk about. Steve took a liking to her the first day of working because she spoke her mind and didn’t take shit from anyone. She reminded him of his mom a bit, and he smiled up at her words. “Is he someone you know, or are you like God, creating a piece of art?”

Steve looks back down at the page in front of him, staring at the drawing of Bucky he did a few week’s back: dark hair perfectly sculpted back, a strong jawline jutted out stubbornly and covered in a bit of stubble, eyes flashing with mischief and a mouth curved in a crooked smile that always has the dames wrapped around his fingers. Where Steve was blessed with a natural ability to create through drawing, Bucky was blessed with natural charm and handsome beauty every girl in a block radius (and beyond) couldn’t miss (and didn’t). Steve envied his friend’s natural charisma, and was jealous over it all the same (refusing to acknowledge what exactly he was jealous over).

“Just a friend,” Steve replies quietly, cheeks heating up as he keeps his eyes glued to Bucky’s likeness before him, eyes tracing the delicate lines of his friend’s mouth and not sparing a glance at Rose Marie as she takes a seat across from him. Steve’s eyes continue to trace the shape of Bucky’s eyes, and he feels a skip in his chest at the memory of Bucky’s deep, infectious laugh.

“Is he that handsome in real life, or are you being generous with your talent?”

Steve looks up sharply, a feeling of protectiveness forcing him to quickly flip his sketchbook closed, and replies defensively, “I only draw what I see.”

Rose Marie whistles with exaggeration and a shake of her head. “Well, his dance card must be full every weekend if there’s no embellishment on your part.”

Steve can’t help thinking, _What an understatement._ “I guess so,” he returns with a shrug instead.

“I know I wouldn’t turn down a spin on the dance floor with your fella there.”

Steve stands abruptly, back pinching as he does, and takes a moment to steady his equilibrium. He doesn’t understand this feeling her words cause, like this is territory she has no right being in, as if she has no right looking at or speaking about his best friend in that way, even if there’s no intention behind her words. Steve knows Rose Marie’s got a fella she’s practically engaged to, it just being a matter of time and money before they make it official, and that she would never think to step out on him with another guy, but all the same Rose Marie serves as a reminder to Steve of what’s to come. What Rose Marie has in life to look forward to, a future with a husband and a few kids, _a perfect life_ , is the same future some other dame in the world will eventually be settling into with Bucky, and when that happens (which Steve knows inevitably will), where then would he fit into this world (into Bucky’s world)? Would Steve even still be around to worry about his place in Bucky’s future? These are all thoughts Steve is more than happy to ignore, and does regularly, but they all the same are never completely forgotten. Steve’s lost too much in this world already that he can’t bear to think of losing Bucky too.

“I better get back…” Steve announces, picking up his things and placing them in one of the empty bins, his steps a bit sluggish and his shoulders hung low, a feeling of defeat residing in his chest.

“Chin up, Kid, just a few more hours,” Rose Marie encourages with a sympathetic smile, flipping open her book and misinterpreting Steve’s downtrodden mood, but he doesn’t correct her, just waves her off in agreement and slips back into the store room to grab the next load for restocking and hopefully pull his mind away from his darker thoughts. Steve dives into work so deeply, he doesn’t realize it’s time to clock out until Rose Marie calls out to him as he passes by carrying another empty crate.

“Hey Steve, your _friend_ is here,” she calls out, causing him to stop abruptly, looking up in surprise.

Bucky does a little wave from the checkout, hip resting against the counter’s edge, and smiles wide, laughing at Steve’s apparent gape.

“What… Bucky, what are you doing here?”

Bucky shrugs, giving Rose Marie a wink before turning back to Steve. “Got off early and thought maybe it’d be fun to catch a movie or something. Unless you’re not feeling up to it.”

Rose Marie watches them both with rapt attention, eyes scrutinizing each blink of their eyes, the way Bucky’s mouth curves in mirth at Steve, and probably even the way Steve’s breath hitches and becomes thready in the face of Bucky’s own smile.

“No… I mean, ye-yeah a movie…” Steve stammers, and if his hands weren’t otherwise occupied with carrying the empty stock crate, he would have smacked is forehead for good measure. “I just need to clock out…”

Steve makes a hasty retreat, knowing his cheeks are flushed rosy from the heat he can feel. He wastes no time shelving the empty crate and ducking into to break room to grab his coat and sketchbook. He hangs his store apron on a hook by the entrance before heading back out to the storefront to meet up with Bucky. Shuffling his way up to the checkout, he catches Rose Marie giggling, tucking a curl behind here right ear and Bucky grinning ear to ear, and no matter how taken Rose Marie is with her guy or how Steve knows this is just Bucky being his flirtatious self, Steve can’t help feeling that every time someone meets Bucky, takes an interest in his friend, irrationally it feels like they take away a little piece of Bucky that Steve will never get back.

“You ready?” Bucky asks, taking notice of Steve before he’s even made his presence known, smiling just as wide (maybe even wider) and focusing his full attention on Steve.

“Y-yeah,” Steve agrees, hands gripping his sketchbook against his buttoned up coat, that isn’t so much for warmth as it is simply for the purpose of cutting down the wind’s biting chill.

“Punk, where’re your gloves?” Bucky asks, slipping his own off as he approaches Steve.

“Forgot them,” Steve admits, ducking his head and ignoring Rose Marie’s adoring gaze aimed at Bucky due to his mothering, Steve assumes, and Bucky’s own admonishing look.

“Put these on,” Bucky says, handing over his gloves. 

Steve attempts to refuse them, looking up at his friend to voice his thoughts, but Bucky’s mouth is set firm and his eyes warn that there will be no discussion in this matter. In the end, Steve slips the oversized gloves on, reveling in their warmth, and offers a small, wordless smile of thanks.

When they depart Steve’s place of work, Bucky slings an arm around his shoulders, roughly jostling him and chuckles, making Steve feel marginally better (at least no one has taken this away yet). “What would you do without me?”

Steve doesn’t want to think about what he’d do without Bucky. It would be a terribly lonely existence, that is for sure, and one he wouldn’t last more than one cold season through. A world without Bucky isn’t an option, and he feels guilty and selfish in that thought because Bucky could have so much more without Steve.

“You’d be better off,” Steve mutters under breath, voicing his thoughts.

“Hey now, I don’t wanna hear none of that,” Bucky states, bringing them to an abrupt stop and meeting Steve’s eyes. “How many times I gotta tell ya, it’s you and me pal…”

“…to the end of the line, “ Steve says, finishing the familiar phrase shared between them.

“To the end of the line,” Bucky agrees, hand grabbing and squeezing Steve’s shoulder. “Now come on, before we miss them news reels you’re crazy about.”

He’s never going to believe he deserves having Bucky in his life. He’s always going to feel guilty for holding his friend back, knowing Bucky is in the prime of his life and should be looking to start on a family of his own that doesn’t include Steve, but he will take and enjoy each day he gets to have his friend by his side, even if in the end (no matter how much Bucky promises) it isn’t _to the end of the line_.


End file.
